


Two Cups a Day

by TrepidationChance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, haunting dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:54:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrepidationChance/pseuds/TrepidationChance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft was right; he missed the battlefield. <br/>His lust for it was immense to the point of taunting him in his dreams. <br/>His nerves buzzed with adrenaline. <br/>He could use another cuppa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Cups a Day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for a friend~  
> This was an idea that had struck me when I was lost in the abyss of my mind.  
> When I watched the first episode of BBC's version of Sherlock, I imagined that John would probably still be haunted by dreams of war.  
> When Mycroft mentioned him missing it, I felt more convinced that the dreams would probably occur frequently.  
> I'm not very into the fandom of Sherlock, so please don't judge the OOC-ness of the characters!!!!  
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this fanfic~

Sherlock and John crashed into 221B Baker St, the doctor promptly falling down onto the couch. They had been chasing criminals all around London, almost like a cat and mouse chase. Unfortunately, this involved them being the mouse at times. John sat back up, fully knowing the aches he would receive in the morning if he attempted to sleep where he was. He was tempted though. The moment he got off the couch, Sherlock draped himself over it, hands at his chin as he shuffled into his mind palace to sort out the new information he had gained for the day. No doubt deleting useless data too, like the awkward attempts to strike a conversation coming from John’s part. Sherlock was probably dumping it all into the recycle bin outside of his hard drive, leaving much needed space for ‘the things that matter’. He sighed in resignation, crawling into his bedroom in search for a good night sleep. The look on Sherlock’s face said otherwise as he watched John leave in curiosity.

~~~~~~~~

_Pain erupted from his shoulder, searing into him like hot molten steel, charring his mind into burnt flesh. He couldn’t make sense of anything, just the sound of seeds flying past his ears and landing into the dusty soils of the desert. Everything seemed to slow down in time, making every second longer and more painful to pass. **Bullet to shoulder. In severe condition. Need to stop mass bleeding.** His eyes fed him blurred images of army fatigues, the blotches of browns and greens fading into each other to create suits of shadows looming over him._

_“WATSON! The Doc’s down! Someone get him to a bloody hospital!”_

_A bullet finally hit its mark, slicing through tough muscle and embedded in bone. **Another to the thigh. Need to sterilise wound. Wrap leg in plaster.** He could hear the yells of horror, hurt and hurry. The medic was down. They needed reinforcements. He felt tired. **Losing too much blood. Need first aid. Put pressure on wounds.** He needs to move, before someone gets hurt trying to get him out of there._

_“DOC! Hang in there, don’t you DARE die on me. We owe you too much for that-”_

Gasping, John shot straight out of bed, his heart beating erratically. He hadn’t had a nightmare in a while; this time’s was almost like a dunk into an icy pool of water. Ironically, he felt the complete opposite, remembering the sweltering heat of the desert and the buckets of sweat that had rolled down his forehead. Having regain control over his breathing, he stood up slowly, wincing as he placed his weight on his left leg. His limp was aching again.

Deciding that he needed some fresh air, he slowly exited the bedroom, aiming straight for the kitchen; a cup of tea would do him nicely. Opening the fridge, he dodged the rotten fingers and made a grab for the milk carton. Surprised at the tug of weight he felt, he took note that the carton was half full.

**_Sherlock actually did the shopping?_ **

He shuffled to the counter, pulled out a teabag and his favourite mug. He deemed the cup usable and was about to turn the kettle on when someone suddenly spoke into his ear.

“You forgot to drink your second cup of tea last night, which tends to sooth off your nightmares and-”

John’s instincts blared like a siren as he spun, throwing a wild fist in the direction of the voice, hitting a blow to Sherlock’s right cheekbone. Snapping out of his trance, he was faced with a grumpy consulting detective on the floor, cupping his face. Shaking his head, John sighed.

“You know not to scare me after I have a nightmare. My inner soldier starts flaring up.”

“Well, yes. I know. But still, I thought that as a _captain_ , you’d still have some reason left in your daft brain. Now, don’t give me that look. You know what I mean. Anyway, make sure you finish your cup of tea and go back to sleep, otherwise you may not catch up to me today. I find that if you don’t have your usual eight hours of sleep, you are less tolerant to my quirks during the day. I’m assuming your dream was about the time you were shot?

“Your limp is back, which means you’re rather shaken up. As you haven’t been screaming at night lately, I’d say you haven’t had nightmares plaguing you for at least a few weeks. You haven’t had a shower yet, with all that sweat you’ve been rolling around in, meaning you want to first find comfort emotionally and then deal with your body odour later. I assume you aren’t going to work today, as your limp will make it hard to walk. You’re too prideful to go back to the cane, as you hadn’t needed it since we first met, so I suggest you should sleep in if you really can’t sleep well and catch up later when you feel better. I’ll be at the murder scene.”

With his coat swinging behind him, Sherlock attempted to make a quick exit but was held back by a tug on his scarf. Turning back, he faced the unamused face of his flatmate.

“You are _not_ going out with your face like that. I’ll get you a bandage for that.”

“No need, it would only obstruct my eye sight. Anyway, what do I care for appearances? Just finish your tea. The kettle’s just about done boiling.”

Suddenly, the said kettle automatically clicked off. Reaching out, John poured the scalding liquid into his cup, filling it halfway with the sweet earl grey essence swirling into the water. With a splash of milk, the drink was finished and he carefully placed the cup into the hands of a rather surprised Sherlock. He then made another mug of tea for himself, sitting down on his armchair and sipped the golden liquid.

“Then at least share a cuppa with me, Sherlock. Don’t be in such a rush.”

“Not now, John. Serial killers wait for no one.”

He placed the cup down on the counter, bolting out the door. He then popped his head back in, staring straight at John.

“I’ll take your invitation for that tea when I come back. Now go to bed.”

Winking, he continued on his way, leaving John with his mouth open. A wink? The last time he had received a wink from Sherlock was when he had first met him. Both times, he walked out the same way after deciding on a date to see the flat. Was Sherlock asking for a date?

Now left alone in the flat, he shook his head in resignation, similar to yesterday. He slowly wound back, relaxing in his chair, holding the warm cup in both hands. In a chilly winter like this, he needs all the warmth he can get; even the feeling of blood flushing his face was welcome.


End file.
